“But wouldn’t you get lonely?”
“Of course I will,” said Raymond, trying to sound convincing. “But almost every member north of Birmingham is parted from his wife during the week. In any case, you’ve always wanted to settle in Yorkshire, and this might be our best chance. If my practice continues to grow we can buy a second house in London at a later date.”
Joyce looked apprehensive.
“One added bonus,” said Raymond, “your being in Leeds will ensure I never lose the seat.”
She smiled, as she always felt reassured whenever Raymond showed the slightest sign of needing her.
On Monday morning Raymond put in a bid for the house in Chapel Allerton before returning to London. After a little bargaining over the phone during the week, he and the owner settled on a price. By Thursday Raymond had put his Lansdowne Road house on the market and was surprised by the amount the estate agent thought it would fetch.
All Raymond had to do now was find himself a flat.
Simon sent a note to Ronnie expressing his thanks for keeping him so well informed about what was happening at Nethercote and Company. It had been eight months since he had resigned from the board because of his appointment as a minister, but Ronnie saw that the minutes of each meeting were posted to him to study in his own time. “His own time”: Simon had to laugh at the thought.
His overdraft at the bank now stood at a little over £72,000, but as Ronnie intended the shares should be offered at five pounds each when they went public Simon felt sure there was still a fair leeway, as his personal holding should realize £300,000. Elizabeth warned him not to spend a penny of the profit until the money was safely in the bank. He was thankful she didn’t know the full extent of his borrowing.
Over one of their occasional lunches at the Ritz, Ronnie spelled out to Simon his plans for the future of the company.
“Now that the Tories are in I think I’ll go public in eighteen months’ time. This year’s profits are up again and next year’s look even better. So 1973 looks a perfect bet.”
Simon looked apprehensive and Ronnie responded quickly. “If you’re having any problem, Simon, I’ll be happy to take the shares off your hands at their market value. At least that way you’d show a small profit.”
“No, no,” said Simon. “I’ll hang in there now that I’ve waited this long.”
“Suit yourself,” said Ronnie. “Now tell me—how are you enjoying the Home Office?”
Simon put down his knife and fork. “Of the three great offices of state, it’s the one most involved with people, so there’s a new challenge at a personal level every day, although it can be depressing too. Locking people up in prisons, banning immigrants and deporting harmless aliens isn’t my idea of fun. The Home Office never seems to want anyone to enjoy too much freedom.”
“And what about Ireland?”
“What about Ireland?” said Simon, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’d give the north back to Eire,” said Ronnie, “or let them go independent and give them a large cash incentive to do so. At the moment the whole exercise is money down the drain.”
“We’re discussing people,” said Simon, “not money.”
“Ninety percent of the voters would back me,” said Ronnie, lighting a cigar.
“Everyone imagines ninety percent of the people support their views, until they stand for election,” said Simon. “The issue of Ireland is far too important to be glib about. I repeat, we’re discussing people, eight million people, all of whom have the same right to justice as you and I. And as long as I work in the Home Office I intend to see that they get it.”
Ronnie remained silent.
“I’m sorry, Ronnie,” continued Simon. “Too many people have an easy solution to Ireland. If there was an easy solution the problem wouldn’t have lasted over two hundred years.”
“Don’t be sorry,” said Ronnie. “I’m so stupid, I’ve only just worked out for the first time why you’re in public office.”
“You’re a typical self-made Fascist,” said Simon, teasing his companion once again.
“You may be right, but you won’t change my mind on hanging. Your lot should bring back the rope; the streets aren’t safe any longer.”
“For property developers like you, hoping for a quick killing?”
Both men laughed.
“Andrew, do you want lunch?”
“In a moment, in a moment.”
“That’s what you said half an hour ago.”
“I know, but he’s nearly got it. Just give me a few more minutes.” Louise waited and watched, but Robert collapsed in a heap again.
“No doubt you’re expecting him to play soccer for England by the time he’s two.”
“No, certainly not,” said Andrew, carrying his son back into the house. “Rugby for Scotland.”
Louise was touched by the amount of time Andrew spent with Robert. She told her disbelieving friends that he regularly fed and bathed the baby and even changed his nappy.
“Don’t you think he’s good-looking?” asked Andrew, strapping his son carefully into his chair.
“Yes,” said Louise, laughing.
“That’s because he looks like me,” said Andrew, putting his arms round his wife.
“He most certainly does not,” said Louise firmly.
Crash. A bowlful of porridge had been deposited on the floor, leaving just a lump left in the spoon, which Robert was now smearing across his face and hair.
“He looks as if he has just stepped out of a concrete mixer,” said Andrew.
Louise stared at her son. “Perhaps you’re right. There are times when he looks like you.”
“How do you feel about rape?” asked Raymond.
“I can’t see that it’s relevant,” Stephanie Arnold replied.
“I think they’ll go for me on it,” said Raymond.
“But why?”
“They’ll be able to pin me in a corner, damage my character.”
“But where does it get them? They can’t prove lack of consent.”
“Maybe, but they will offer it as background to prove the rest of the case.”
“Because you raped someone doesn’t prove you murdered them.”
Raymond and Stephanie Arnold, who was new to chambers, continued discussing their first case together on the way to the Old Bailey, and she left Raymond in no doubt that she was delighted to be led by him. They were to appear together to defend a laborer accused of the rape and murder of his stepdaughter.
“Open and shut case unfortunately,” said Raymond, “but we’re going to make the Crown prove their argument beyond anyone’s doubt.”
When the case stretched into a second week Raymond began to believe that the jury were so gullible they might even get their client off. Stephanie was sure they would.
The day before the judge’s summing up Raymond invited Stephanie to dinner at the House of Commons. That’ll make them turn their heads, he thought to himself. They won’t have seen anything in a white shirt and black stockings that looks like that for some time, certainly not Mr. Speaker.
Stephanie seemed flattered by the invitation and sat through the stodgy meal served in the Strangers’ Dining Room, obviously impressed as former Cabinet ministers flitted in and out, all of them acknowledging him.
“How’s the new flat?” asked Stephanie.
“Worked out well,” replied Raymond. “The Barbican is so convenient for Parliament and the law courts.”
“Does your wife like it?” she asked, lighting a cigarette but not looking at him directly.
“She’s not in town that much nowadays. She spends most of her time in Leeds—doesn’t care much for London.”
The awkward pause that followed was interrupted by a sudden clanging of bells.
“Are we on fire?” said Stephanie, quickly stubbing out her cigarette.
“No,” said Raymond, laughing. “Just the ten o’clock division. I have to leave you and vote. I’ll be back in about
fifteen minutes.”
“Shall I order coffee?”
“No, don’t bother,” said Raymond. “It’s foul. Perhaps … perhaps you’d like to come back to the Barbican? Then you can give a verdict on my flat.”
“Maybe it’s an open and shut case.” She smiled.
Raymond returned the smile before joining his colleagues as they flooded out of the dining room down the corridor toward the Commons Chamber. He didn’t have time to explain to Stephanie that he had only six minutes to get into the right lobby. As Raymond had no idea what they were voting on that night he followed the surge of Labour members into the Noes lobby. The bells stopped and the doors were bolted.
Whenever the vote is called for at the end of the debate the Speaker puts the question and the moment he reaches the words, “I think the Ayes have it,” the roar of “No” from those opposed to the motion ensures a vote at ten o’clock. Bells peal out over the Palace of Westminster, and in some nearby restaurants and members’ homes in the division-bell area.
Members then scurry into the Ayes or Noes division lobby before the cry of “Lock the doors” is heard. Once the doors have been secured each member then files past two clerks seated at a high desk at the far end of the corridor who tick off his name. As Raymond stepped past the clerks he came toward the exit doors which were angled so as to make a funnel through which only one member at a time could pass. The Whip acting as teller shouted out the mounting vote. “Seventy-three,” he called as Raymond passed him. The only particular rule relating to voting was that members could not wear a hat or overcoat while in the lobby. A clerk had once told Raymond that this dated from the days when lazy members sent their driver off in the hansom cab, hats over ears, coat buttoned up to the nose, to march through the corridors and give their masters’ names. Some of them would have been a damn sight better MPs than their employers, Raymond had often thought.
While in the corridor he discovered that they were voting on a clause of the Trade Union Bill concerning the validity of closed shops. He was in no doubt that he supported his party on that subject.
When he returned to the Strangers’ Dining Room after the vote he found Stephanie checking her face in a compact mirror, a small round face with green eyes and brunette hair. She was replacing the trace of lipstick. He suddenly felt conscious of being a little overweight for a man not yet forty.
“Shall we go?” he suggested, after he had signed the bill.
Once they had reached the flat Raymond put on a Charles Aznavour record and retired to the small kitchen to prepare coffee. He was totally oblivious to the fact that women were beginning to find him attractive. A little extra weight and a few gray hairs had not harmed his appearance, if anything giving him an air of authority.
“There’s no doubting this is a bachelor flat,” Stephanie remarked as she took in the one comfortable leather chair, the pipe stand, and the Spy cartoons of turn-of-the-century judges and politicians.
“I suppose that’s because that’s what it is,” he mused, setting down a tray laden with coffee and two brandy balloons generously filled with cognac.
“Don’t you get lonely?” she asked.
“From time to time,” he said, pouring the coffee.
“And between times?”
“Black?” he asked, not looking at her.
“Black,” she said.
“Sugar?”
“For a man who has served as a minister of the Crown and who, it’s rumored, is about to become the youngest QC in the country, you’re still very unsure of yourself with women.”
Raymond blushed, but raised his head and stared into her eyes.
In the silence he caught Aznavour’s words, “You’ve let yourself go …”
“Would my Honorable friend care to dance?” she said quietly.
Raymond could still remember the last occasion he had danced. This time he was determined it would be different. He held Stephanie so that their bodies touched and they swayed rather than danced to the music of Marcel Stellman. She didn’t notice Raymond slipping off his glasses and putting them into his jacket pocket. He bent over and kissed her neck. She gave a long sigh, and when they parted, she said, “Let’s hope this is between times.”
Charles studied his chart of 330 Conservatives. He felt confident of 217, not sure about fifty-four, and had almost given up on fifty-nine. On the Labour side the best information he could glean was that fifty Socialists were expected to defy the Whip and join the Government’s ranks when the great vote took place.
“The main fly in the ointment,” Charles reported to the Chief Whip, “is still the Trade Union Reform Bill. The left are trying to convince those Socialists who still support the bill that there is no cause so important for which they should enter the same lobby as those Tory trade union bashers.” He went on to explain his fear that unless the Government were willing to modify the Trade Union Bill they might lose Europe on the back of it. “Alec Pimkin doesn’t help matters by trying to gather the waverers in our party round him.”
“There’s no chance of the Prime Minister modifying one sentence of the Trade Union Bill,” said the Chief Whip, draining his gin and tonic. “He promised it in his speech at the party conference, and he intends to deliver by the time he goes to Blackpool at the end of this year. I can also tell you he isn’t going to like your conclusions on Pimkin, Charles. He cares almost as passionately about trade union reform as he does about Europe.” Charles was about to protest. “I’m not complaining, you’ve done damn well so far. Just keep working on the fifty waverers. Threaten, cajole, bully, bribe. Try anything, but get them in the right lobby come the night, Pimkin included.”
“How about sex?” asked Charles.
“You’ve been seeing too many American films,” said the Chief Whip, laughing. “In any case I don’t think we’ve got anyone other than Miss Norse to offer them.”
Charles returned to his office and went over the list once again. His forefinger stopped at the letter “P.” Charles strolled out into the corridor and looked around; his quarry wasn’t there. He checked the Chamber: no sign of him. He passed the library. No need to look in there, he thought, and moved on to the smoking room where he found his man, about to order another gin.
“Alec,” said Charles expansively.
The rotund figure of Pimkin looked round.
May as well try bribery first, thought Charles. “Let me get you a drink.”
“That’s good of you, old fellow,” said Pimkin, nervously fingering his bow tie.
“Now, Alec, what’s this about your voting against the European Bill?”
Simon was horrified when he read the initial document. Its implications were all too evident.
The report of the new Boundary Commission had been left in the red box for him to study over the weekend. He had agreed at a meeting of Home Office officials that he would steer it through the House as quickly as possible so that it would make the basis for the seats to be contested at the next election. As the Secretary of State reminded him: there must be no hold-ups.
Simon had read the document carefully. In essence the changes made sense and, because of the movement of families from urban to rural areas, it would undoubtedly create more winnable seats for the Conservatives overall. No wonder the party wanted no hold-ups. But what could he do about the decision the Commission had come to on his own constituency, Coventry Central? His hands were tied. If he suggested any change from the Boundary Commission’s recommendations he would rightly be accused of gerrymandering.
Because of the city’s dwindling population the Commission had recommended that the four constituencies of Coventry become three. Coventry Central was to be the one to disappear, its voters distributed among Coventry West, Coventry East, and Coventry North. Simon realized this would leave one safe seat for his sitting colleague and two safe Labour seats. It had never been far from his mind how marginal a constituency he represented. Now he was on the verge of being without one at all. He would have to traips
e around the country all over again looking for a new seat to fight at the next election, while at the same time taking care of his constituents in the moribund one; and at the stroke of a pen—bis pen—they would pass on their loyalties to someone else. If only he had remained in Housing and Local Government he could have put up a case for keeping all four seats.
Elizabeth was sympathetic when he explained the problem but told him not to concern himself too much until he had spoken to the vice-chairman of the party, who advised candidates which constituencies were likely to become available.
“It may even work out to your advantage,” she added.
“What do you mean?” said Simon.
“You could get a safer seat nearer London.”
“With my luck I’ll end up with a marginal in Newcastle.”
Elizabeth prepared his favorite meal and spent the evening trying to keep up his spirits. After three portions of shepherd’s pie Simon fell asleep almost as soon as he put his head on the pillow. But she stayed awake long into the night.
The casual conversation with the head of Gynecology at St. Mary’s kept running through her mind. Although she hadn’t confided in Simon, she could recall her supervisor’s every word.
“I notice from the roster that you’ve had far more days off than you are entitled to, Dr. Kerslake. You must make up your mind if you want to be a doctor or the wife of an MP.”
Elizabeth stirred restlessly as she considered the problem, but came to no conclusion except not to bother Simon while he had so much on his mind.
“Do these boundary changes affect you?” Louise asked, looking up from her copy of The Times.
Andrew was bouncing a small rubber ball on Robert’s head.
“You’ll give him brain damage,” said Louise.
“I know, but think of the goals he’ll score—and it won’t be long before I can start him on rugby.”
Robert started to cry when his father stopped to answer his mother’s question. “No, Edinburgh isn’t affected. There’s such a small movement in the population that the seven city seats will remain intact. The only real changes in Scotland will be in Glasgow and the Highlands.”